The Mantelpiece
Hannah Smith
On the mantelpiece there is a blank photo frame. “What is it for?” I’d always ask mother. “You’ll learn when you’re older, don’t ask questions.” Then, I would ask something about my father. It always nags in the back of my brain, but I never get answers. 5 years ago, I first heard that. Now, even at fifteen, she still uses the snarky tone that makes my heart sag as if it was paper in water. Other mothers don’t do that. The first thing I saw in the morning was the scowling furrowed brow of my mother’s irritable face. The thing I least want to see at six o’clock on my Saturday. “Up! Now!” She yelled. “C’mon! There are places to go, things to do, and surfaces to clean. If you have enough time, you can mow the lawns. And the chickens need feeding, so I would eat what’s left over from my breakfast quickly if I were you.” Then she whipped out of the room, slamming the door and shaking the door frame behind her, turning her face away from me. The bread was stale and the cheese was soggy. I engulfed quickly. By the end of the day, the blisters burned on my fingers, sweat splattered and dribbled down my face and I sloped in with a pounding headache. It was a relief to stand in the shade of the cool kitchen. “Stand on the news paper! Don’t touch anything!” Mother cried and brushed me off with a duster. “Eat quickly then go upstairs and stay there. Go on! I have a friend coming over tonight.”I wolfed down an unsatisfactory dry pasta, then went upstairs. When I awoke in the morning, I dressed quickly, for I had promised my friend I’d come at 10:00, and I was running a little late. I then slung my bag over my shoulder and walked down stairs. Nothing. “Mother?” Silence. I sidled out the door, hoping she wouldn’t hear or see me. Later that afternoon, when I got home, I walked into the living room. Mother was sitting there on the couch with her feet propped up, glass of wine in hand, glasses perched on the bridge of her hook nose reading a book. “Good afternoon. Please feed the chickens and cook dinner,” she said to me, peering over the top of her book. “Yes Mother,” I sighed, walking into the kitchen and beginning to boil the potatoes. Potatoes. What?
We never, well, actually, I never got potatoes. Not since... ‘I’ve had enough of this,” I thought. I turned and stared at the wall, Then, I dropped back down to earth, realising what was staring back at me. The blank photo frame. I had had enough of mysteries, and I had to find out why. After dinner, I quietly prowled through mother’s book shelf until I found what I was looking for. Sneaking back to my bedroom, I began to flick through the yellowing pages of the photo album. I got to the page where I was first born. I couldn’t help smiling. We looked so happy. There was mother with her curly hair, wow, it was so long back then. And me. A tiny little smile plastered up on my chubby face; how sweet. Then I turned the page. There we were again, all smiling on my first birthday. I honestly don’t remember Mother being kind enough as to bake me cakes. I turned the page again. And what I saw made me nearly drop the album. I stifled my shriek and quickly closed the album, heart pounding. There was meant to be a picture there, for it was labeled ‘The parents’ first meeting’ But the photo slot was empty. And I knew what that meant. That photo was of my mother and father. Could this be the picture that used to be on the mantelpiece? Is that my father? That could be my father. THAT’S MY FATHER! I got up and did a little dance in the middle of the floor. Then, as my mother yelled “Quiet up there!” I yelled back “Sorry Mother!” A thought struck me. What if the picture was still in the house? What if it was in mother’s very room? I slid an eye towards the door of her room, as if to say, ‘Dare I?’ And I could have sworn the door said “Go right in.” As quietly as possible, my heart in my mouth, breathing excitedly shallow and fast, I searched through Mother’s drawers, wardrobe and under the bed. I then went through her bedside cabinet and, slowly, my dirt filled fingernails revealed a photo. “I told you to serve dinner 5 MINUTES AGO!” It was the wrong photo. “Damn it!” I yelled, forgetting I was forbidden in this room. I tore back to my room just as Mother came up the stairs. “Hm?” She said, poking her head in the room. “J-just dropped my, er-” I grabbed my ear.
“Eeeeearing butterfly and now I can’t find it mother,” I said gritting my teeth. “Really?”she said, looking at me hard. “Yep,” I said nodding. “Damn it.” “Alright...Now be quiet, because I am reading a good book.” And then she backed out, watching me suspiciously. I kept a fake smile on till I knew she was gone then breathed a sigh of relief, taking my hand off my red ear. Then, quietly, I snuck back into her room. What I didn’t expect to see though was Mother herself, standing with hands on her hips. “Oh, hello again,” her voice said dangerously. Her eyes flickered over thephoto- I-was- not-looking-for-photo and she asked softly “What, may I ask...” ‘No you may not ask,’ I muttered under my breath. “Pardon me?” “Nothing, nothing…” Black eyes with no warmth made their way towards my hand. “Just a photo, Mother. I found it under my…” I quickly looked around in desperate hope for something that would save my precious hunt for a photo. “...Bed,” “I see,” she said quietly. “May I?” I handed the photo of Grandmother to her neatly manicured hand. Then, my short vision unnaturally spotted something poking out from Mother’s pillow. I pulled out the photo. I knew this was the one. “Would you care to explain this, Mother?” On the mantelpiece there is a blank photo frame. “What is it for?” I’d always ask mother. “You’ll learn when you’re older, don’t ask questions.” Then, I would ask something about my father. It always nags in the back of my brain, but I never get answers. 5 years ago, I first heard that. Now, even at fifteen, she still uses the snarky tone that makes my heart sag as if it was paper in water. Other mothers don’t do that. The first thing I saw in the morning was the scowling furrowed brow of my mother’s irritable face. The thing I least want to see at six o’clock on my Saturday. “Up! Now!” She yelled. “C’mon! There are places to go, things to do, and surfaces to clean. If you have enough time, you can mow the lawns. And the chickens need feeding, so I would eat what’s left over from my breakfast quickly if I were you.” Then she whipped out of the room, slamming the door and shaking the door frame behind her, turning her face away from me. The bread was stale and the cheese was soggy. I engulfed quickly.
By the end of the day, the blisters burned on my fingers, sweat splattered and dribbled down my face and I sloped in with a pounding headache. It was a relief to stand in the shade of the cool kitchen. “Stand on the news paper! Don’t touch anything!” Mother cried and brushed me off with a duster. “Eat quickly then go upstairs and stay there. Go on! I have a friend coming over tonight.”I wolfed down an unsatisfactory dry pasta, then went upstairs. When I awoke in the morning, I dressed quickly, for I had promised my friend I’d come at 10:00, and I was running a little late. I then slung my bag over my shoulder and walked down stairs. Nothing. “Mother?” Silence. I sidled out the door, hoping she wouldn’t hear or see me. Later that afternoon, when I got home, I walked into the living room. Mother was sitting there on the couch with her feet propped up, glass of wine in hand, glasses perched on the bridge of her hook nose reading a book. “Good afternoon. Please feed the chickens and cook dinner,” she said to me, peering over the top of her book. “Yes Mother,” I sighed, walking into the kitchen and beginning to boil the potatoes. Potatoes. What? We never, well, actually, I never got potatoes. Not since... ‘I’ve had enough of this,” I thought. I turned and stared at the wall, Then, I dropped back down to earth, realising what was staring back at me. The blank photo frame. I had had enough of mysteries, and I had to find out why. After dinner, I quietly prowled through mother’s book shelf until I found what I was looking for. Sneaking back to my bedroom, I began to flick through the yellowing pages of the photo album. I got to the page where I was first born. I couldn’t help smiling. We looked so happy. There was mother with her curly hair, wow, it was so long back then. And me. A tiny little smile plastered up on my chubby face; how sweet. Then I turned the page. There we were again, all smiling on my first birthday. I honestly don’t remember Mother being kind enough as to bake me cakes. I turned the page again. And what I saw made me nearly drop the album.
I stifled my shriek and quickly closed the album, heart pounding. There was meant to be a picture there, for it was labeled ‘The parents’ first meeting’ But the photo slot was empty. And I knew what that meant. That photo was of my mother and father. Could this be the picture that used to be on the mantelpiece? Is that my father? That could be my father. THAT’S MY FATHER! I got up and did a little dance in the middle of the floor. Then, as my mother yelled “Quiet up there!” I yelled back “Sorry Mother!” A thought struck me. What if the picture was still in the house? What if it was in mother’s very room? I slid an eye towards the door of her room, as if to say, ‘Dare I?’ And I could have sworn the door said “Go right in.” As quietly as possible, my heart in my mouth, breathing excitedly shallow and fast, I searched through Mother’s drawers, wardrobe and under the bed. I then went through her bedside cabinet and, slowly, my dirt filled fingernails revealed a photo. “I told you to serve dinner 5 MINUTES AGO!” It was the wrong photo. “Damn it!” I yelled, forgetting I was forbidden in this room. I tore back to my room just as Mother came up the stairs. “Hm?” She said, poking her head in the room. “J-just dropped my, er-” I grabbed my ear. “Eeeeearing butterfly and now I can’t find it mother,” I said gritting my teeth. “Really?”she said, looking at me hard. “Yep,” I said nodding. “Damn it.” “Alright...Now be quiet, because I am reading a good book.” And then she backed out, watching me suspiciously. I kept a fake smile on till I knew she was gone then breathed a sigh of relief, taking my hand off my red ear. Then, quietly, I snuck back into her room. What I didn’t expect to see though was Mother herself, standing with hands on her hips. “Oh, hello again,” her voice said dangerously. Her eyes flickered over thephoto- I-was- not-looking-for-photo and she asked softly “What, may I ask...” ‘No you may not ask,’ I muttered under my breath. “Pardon me?” “Nothing, nothing…” Black eyes with no warmth made their way towards my hand. “Just a photo, Mother. I found it under my…”
I quickly looked around in desperate hope for something that would save my precious hunt for a photo. “...Bed,” “I see,” she said quietly. “May I?” I handed the photo of Grandmother to her neatly manicured hand. Then, my short vision unnaturally spotted something poking out from Mother’s pillow. I pulled out the photo. I knew this was the one. “Would you care to explain this, Mother?”